


Coming Clean

by onward_came_the_meteors



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 sort of but not really, Avengers Tower, Backstory, Ceiling Vent Clint Barton, Domestic Avengers, Everyone Has Issues, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Mild Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, POV Third Person, POV Tony Stark, Post-Avengers (2012), Rating: PG13 (for language), Science Bros, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark Friendship, Team Dynamics, The Avengers Are Good Bros, The Avengers Need a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:47:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24555676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onward_came_the_meteors/pseuds/onward_came_the_meteors
Summary: According to JARVIS, it's time for spring cleaning, but even though it's home to six superheroes, Avengers Tower doesn't appear to need it. When Tony tries to figure out why, he is confronted with aspects of his teammates' pasts--many of which they are reluctant to admit themselves.Fortunately, nobody could say he wasn't stubborn.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 52





	Coming Clean

One might think that Iron Man wouldn’t need an alarm clock to wake up on time. And in some ways, that was true; he would either sleep through one entirely or be in his workshop tinkering with a new idea hours before it rang. 

Routines did not come easily to Tony Stark, and usually they didn’t even matter; all the caffeine and private jets that money could buy were readily available to compensate. And when those failed, hey, he had Pepper.

But after the Battle of New York, he’d gained an additional five roommates (six? It depended on how you counted), and he did not particularly relish the idea of being judged for his sleeping habits by aforementioned roommates, especially a certain pair of superspies and a certain walking national anthem. After the fourth or fifth time he’d caught Natasha smirking around her coffee cup as he stumbled out of his workshop at three-twenty-three with oil in his hair and sleep marks on his face, he and JARVIS decided that drastic action had to be taken.

Hence, JARVIS now serving as his alarm clock. Although there were some days--like today--when Tony wished he could just turn the A.I. off.

“Good morning, sir, it is now eight-forty-seven, nearly a full half hour after you originally instructed me to wake you up; it is a partly cloudy day with a chance of precipitation around--”

Tony rolled over, yanking the pillow over his head.

“--four, with highs reaching fourteen degrees--”

“JARVIS, I told you to stop saying things in Celsius,” Tony grumbled.

“Apologies, sir.” JARVIS’s British accent was smooth and unbothered. “As I was saying--”

“Please stop saying.”

“You programmed me to wake you up, and I will strive to follow these orders to the best of my ability. Remember, the backup plan you installed is still a possibility--”

“All right, all right!” If anything would make this morning less bearable, it would be getting attacked by DUM-E and the fire extinguisher. “Give me a break, it’s the weekend.”

“Quite right, sir,” JARVIS agreed. “As a matter of interest, it is the fourth Sunday in March, which is National Spring Cleaning Day.”

“Don’t caaaaaaarrrrrrre.” Tony wondered how many pillows he would need to completely block out the A.I.’s voice. “It’s not like this tower needs a spring cleaning anyway.”

For a rare moment, JARVIS was silent, allowing actual thoughts to form out of Tony’s still-pretty-much-asleep brain. Unfortunately, the main thoughts were not anything about muffling JARVIS so he could get five more minutes. His mind still seemed stuck on the spring cleaning thing. Another beat passed and he realized why.

Why  _ didn’t  _ they need spring cleaning at the Tower? 

No, no, really. They were the Avengers, after all--Earth’s Mightiest, whatever you wanted to call them--and he was pretty sure superheroes weren’t well known for picking up after themselves. He was living in a tower with a bunch of people who either had super-strength, incredible training, or were literally from outer space. And that was without even mentioning the guy who leveled city blocks when he was angry. All of them living in the same area? Tony would have expected at least a decent pillow fight, smashed TV screen, or dent in the wall shaped suspiciously like a hammer or a shield. At LEAST.

Don’t even get him started on how Barton should have broken one of the air vents by now.

The more he thought about it, the more eerie it seemed. After all the angry phone calls from various authorities or New Yorkers about the wreckage they’d left behind after the fight with Loki (that Tony HAD finally taken care of, no worries), the same Avengers hadn’t left so much as a scuff on the kitchen table?

That just didn’t add up.

And as it turned out, that was just the motivation Tony needed to get out of bed.

* * *

By the time he reached the kitchen, three of the other five Avengers were already there: Natasha, who was eyeballing the toaster; Clint, idly reading the back of the cereal box, and Thor, who was returning an almost-empty carton of orange juice to the fridge. None of them acknowledged his arrival besides Thor, who offered a cheery nod.

Tony did not return said nod because he was busy scanning the kitchen for… well, for anything. A stack of dirty dishes in the sink. Loose bits of cereal on the floor. A buttery knife lying on the counter. Anything belonging to the world of actual people who made messes. He found exactly none of the above. 

“I told you,” Natasha mused, not taking her eyes off the toaster. “You can totally tell when he hasn’t had coffee yet.”

“Point to you, then,” Clint said. “‘Caffeinated’ just seemed to be his natural state.”

“It’s rude to talk about someone behind their back,” Tony said, opening a cupboard at random, where rows of glasses were neatly stacked. In another, two loaves of bread were lined up beside boxes of crackers. In another: oh come on, was the spice rack  _ alphabetized _ ?

“The mugs are in that one,” Thor pointed. “Although I am confused as to why you don’t already know this, as this is your kitchen.”

“Maybe I wasn’t looking for coffee,” Tony countered. He did know where the mugs were, by the way: in the cupboard right next to the fridge, probably all set carefully in a row with the handles facing outward, just like they always were, because--for whatever reason--this kitchen was the cleanest place in the immediate five-block area, even though it. Made. No. Sense. Whatsoever.

And now he couldn’t even drink coffee about it, because then he’d have to deal with the smug look on Romanoff’s face, and that was just not a thing he wanted first thing in the morning. 

Fortunately, the door swung open at that moment, and Tony was saved by the star-spangled man himself. Only now, he was looking more sweaty than anything else, and--god--why did he insist on wearing those tight shirts when he exercised?

“Morning, guys,” Steve said, opening the fridge and grabbing a water bottle. Tony watched carefully--yep, the water bottles were in their own little section, and Steve’s empty one sailed right into the recycling. Like, including the cap.

This was not natural.

“How was your run?” Natasha’s voice was innocent, but they all knew that what Steve Rogers considered a ‘light run,’ most normal people would call a marathon. But one where you sprinted the whole time, if that was a thing, which it wasn’t, because sane people didn’t do that. 

Steve gave her a look as he found a bag of English muffins in the pantry. He offered one to Tony, who took it somewhat reluctantly. “It was fine, thanks for asking--”

“How many times did you break the sound barrier?” That was Clint, who quickly shoved another spoonful of cereal in his mouth. 

Steve frowned. “The what?”

“I think it’s time we return this one to the museum,” Natasha remarked. Just then, her bagel popped out of the toaster, and she snatched it deftly, immediately starting to butter it.

“What?” she asked when she noticed the rest of them looking at her. “You’ve got to make sure it doesn’t lose warmth.”

“You’re a strange person.”

“It’s practical.” Natasha slid the knife into the silverware section of the dishwasher--of course she did--and placed the butter back in its compartment--because of course she did--and started to eat her bagel. “What’s the point of a cold bagel; then it’ll just get soggy.”

Clint’s eyes widened like he’d just discovered the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything. “So that’s how you defeat a Black Widow!”

“I will throw this at you,” Natasha warned around a mouthful. 

Breakfast continued relatively normally for the next few minutes or so. Tony perched on a stool with his English muffin, focusing so intently on everything else in the room (most especially the coffee machine, there had to be a way to get some without Romanoff noticing--oh, who was he kidding, there was no way to do that--why hadn’t he installed one in his workshop when he’d been thinking about it a month ago) that he hardly noticed he had been eating said muffin plain until Steve silently slid him the butter and jelly. The jelly was grape, since anything strawberry had been removed from the tower a while ago in Tony’s hope that it would encourage Pepper to stay over more often (the fact that she had officially moved in as well was notwithstanding). 

After a few minutes, a half-asleep Bruce Banner came in from the living room, in which everyone pretended they didn’t know he’d been sleeping, and “good-morning-”ed the other five, who “good-morning-”ed back. Thor casually got a cup from the top shelf and set it on the counter, which Bruce took absentmindedly and began to fill.

Tony’s hopes were high that maybe at least one of the Avengers wouldn’t prove to be unnaturally neat--

\--and then Bruce finished his drink, went to the sink, and started to WASH OUT THE CUP all right, that was it. 

“Okay.” Tony stood up and moved to the center of the room. To say that it was disheartening when nobody but Steve paid attention to this would not be true, since “disheartened” was simply not an adjective that one used to describe Tony Stark, but he would be lying if he said that he would have preferred Thor to stop rolling up the cereal package with the loudest damn crinking he’d ever heard.

“What is going on here?” he continued. 

“We’re just eating breakfast,” Thor said, shrugging. “How am I to know what pissed you off?”

“Seriously--I can’t be the only one who’s a little weirded out by this.”

“Weirded out by what, Tony?” Steve asked.

Tony pointed at him. “Alright, quit that. I’m not in the mood for the diplomatic-Captain-talk right now. Speak in actual words.”

Steve’s expression did not change one single shift as he said, “Fine--the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m glad you asked.” Finally--Natasha, Clint, and Bruce had registered that there was an announcement happening. “Actually, no, I’m not glad you asked, because I feel like this should be obvious.”

“I think you have two options here,” Natasha said, tossing a napkin in the trash can. Normally, those words delivered by the Black Widow would be accompanied by a gun to the head and possibly a three-hundred-foot plummet into an abyss, but in this case, it was being said in the kitchen of Avengers Tower as she began to slice a mango, so…

… it really wasn’t any less threatening. Especially because Avengers Tower was over three times the height of that hypothetical three-hundred-foot plummet. 

“Option one,” she continued. “Is you actually explain whatever you’re talking about--which, I kind of doubt is going to happen at this rate?--”

“Mmhuhmm!” Clint nodded and pointed his cereal spoon at Tony. Not exactly the deadly end of a bow and arrow… but Tony was pretty sure Clint could find a way to make a weapon out of a dandelion anyway. Clint swallowed and spoke in actual words. “I’ve got some ideas for option two.”

“By all means.”

“Here’s the best contender: we all eat our breakfast in peace, and Stark here reserves the crazy talk for when S.H.I.E.L.D. shows up wanting a mission report.”

“Amen!” Steve called out from the counter.

“Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay.” Tony frowned. “Do you think I need another okay, or should I keep it a nice even number?”

“Tony…”

“Fine. I don’t understand how this place is so clean.” 

“All you had to say.” Completely unruffled, the rest of the team went back to their leisurely morning activities as though Tony had dropped a brioche instead of a bombshell (maybe he was hungrier than he thought after all). Clint slid his hand underneath the table, and a moment later--a suspicious moment later--Natasha’s phone vibrated and she smirked at it. 

Steve even started  _ whistling _ , for fuck’s sake. 

Tony began drumming his fingertips on the counter impatiently. “Ahem. Am I suddenly not speaking English? Nobody--nobody heard what I just said?”

“‘Course we did,” Bruce said, finally snapping into it. “The tower is too clean, and this is… apparently a problem?”

“Yes.” Tony’s eyes were a single degree away from a complete roll. “I don’t know if it’s the--the freaking Baader-Meinhof phenomenon or culture shock or what, but I can’t stop seeing it and it’s creepy. Is what it is.”

He pointed accusingly at Steve. “Like you! What, if I may ask, are you doing over there!”

Steve was giving him that look, the “I-want-to-crawl-back-inside-a-500-pound-block-of-ice-because-at-least-it’s-quiet-in-there” look. “I’m putting the dishrag back in the drawer, Tony; I’m sorry I didn’t realize it was a capital offense.”

“Not just that, you’re FOLDING it, who FOLDS dishrags?” Tony gestured around the room. “But all of you! There’s been six of us in this tower for quite some time now, and you’d never know it; the place looks like a magazine catalog with a target audience of the Golden Globe awards and Star Wars droids, which, yeah, is what I was going for, but none of you guys have ruined it yet!”

“I’ll get right on that,” Clint grinned.

“You’re not getting it.” Tony shook his head. “Which side of the coffee table does the TV remote go?”

“How are we supposed to--”

“Left. I usually put it on the left, and it’s STILL THERE. After all of you used it--speaking of, Thor, I noticed you’re watching that tiger show, I needed someone to talk about that with--but you all put it back in the exact same place. That’s just unnatural.”

“Listen, Tony--”

“The soap! In the main bathroom!” he interrupted. “I haven’t filled the thing in about three years, but it hasn’t gone empty once since you guys moved in. Not once.”

“That’s basic politeness--” Steve interjected.

“Nothing exploded in any of the microwaves except the one in our lab--”

“And that was completely a controlled explosion that we meant to happen,” Bruce assured everyone.

“Definitely. But my point is, why? I never would have expected a group of.... “ Tony pointed and waved his hand around vaguely. 

“I feel like your pointing is drifting unfairly close to me,” Thor protested.

“Well, you’re mainly who I’m talking about. But really? I’ve seen you guys destroy city blocks when you’re going out to lunch, how is it even possible that this tower is like this?”

And that’s when the silence fell. Literally. Like someone had just dropped a huge chunk of it out of the ceiling vents. Everyone’s coffee cups, cereal boxes, and various utensils (Thor actually picked up a spatula and studied it as though he’d never seen one before, although if Tony gave him the benefit of the doubt, he probably hadn’t) suddenly became intensely interesting and worthy of immediate investigation. Bruce actually took off his own glasses and began inspecting them for dust--the audacity, when Tony KNEW he only cleaned those things if he’d recently been upended into a pile of burning wreckage… and sometimes not even then.

Finally, Steve spoke. Good old Steve.

“Listen, Tony… I’m sure we all appreciate the concern… but I really don’t see a problem here.”

Bad old Steve.

“Wait up--” Tony protested, but in some bizarrely half-synchronized action, the rest of the Avengers got up from their various domesticity--Thor offering an apologetic look, Natasha not making eye contact--and filed out of the room. Steve was the last to go, and at least he made an attempt to act like that wasn’t what he was doing: slapping his pockets and mumbling about leaving his somethingsomething in the other room before making his own escape.

Now, maybe this was a rare opinion, but Tony always thought escapes should be less flaunted than that had just been. Unless the escapee had the proper style to do so, such as an Iron Man suit that could awesomely veer away from explosions. But shuffling out of a kitchen one by one? Weak. Lazy. Ineffective.

At least that was what Tony told himself as he poured coffee into the largest mug he owned, glancing over his shoulder to make sure every floor creak wasn’t one of the team coming back to offer an explanation for their Twilight Zone behavior

His grand plan had not gone as grandly planned, sure, but given time… 

Tony took a sip of coffee and instantly spit it out. 

“How does Thor still not know how to not burn coffee?”

* * *

The first one to slink back into the kitchen was--predictably--Steve. Not that Steve was one to slink, or that slinking could even be used to describe someone who would have banged his head on every doorway were they anywhere but a billionaire’s tower and with enough muscle to easily pick up an (occupied) Iron Man suit, but Tony liked using the word. Mostly, he just liked to be right.

“Look,” Steve started. Tony swiped some tabs away on his phone in the pretense of not listening. “It might’ve seemed like we weren’t taking you seriously earlier, so I just wanted to--”

Tony interrupted. “Yeah, yeah, you can spare me the ‘40s politeness hand-wringing, if no one wants to listen to me they don’t have to listen to me.” He grinned teasingly. “I’ve got the entire rest of the world for that.”

Steve looked like he was regretting coming back into the kitchen, but surprisingly enough, he didn’t walk right back out with some excuse about training or captain duties or leaving clothes in the dryer. He pulled out a chair beside Tony and sat down, resting his forearms on the table. “I was about to say that you had a point.”

The phone dropped out of Tony’s hands and into his lap as he leaned forward almost without noticing he was doing so. “Hold up. I’m gonna need you to say that again, and JARVIS--”

Steve smirked. “Thought that’d get your attention.”

“They are my favorite words. Other than--”

“Yeah, you know, I don’t really want to hear how you’re planning to finish that sentence,” Steve said. His expression turned serious, but not Captain-America-let’s-do-this-the-world-is-depending-on-us-if-we-fail-we-fail-as-a-team serious. Which was intriguing enough in itself that for once, Tony didn’t interrupt. He just slipped the phone into his pocket and listened.

“I did know what you meant when you brought up the Tower,” Steve started. “I’ve noticed it too. Been contributing to a lot of it, honestly, but I always told myself it was just being a polite guest.”

“But you’re not a guest!” Okay, Tony’s silence had lasted this long--what else could he expect when he felt like getting up and shaking the stars and stripes right out of this guy? “Do you  _ see  _ any bellhops around this place?”

“If there were, I’m sure they’d be StarkTech.”

“Of course they’d be StarkTech, who do you think you’re talking to here--and don’t change the subject.” As long as they stayed sitting down, Tony could quite easily make eye contact with Steve, but the supersoldier appeared to be avoiding his gaze. “Pepper added the team to the insurance, for god’s sake… how can you still think you don’t live here?”

Steve stared down at the tabletop. The smooth, unblemished, reflection-gleaming tabletop that looked like it hadn’t been so much as breathed on in years, let alone had six people eating breakfast on it less than an hour earlier. “Because I’m still not convinced.”

The silence in the room was tangible. “Convinced of what?” Tony asked, his voice softer. The last thing he wanted right now was to make a stupid joke that would completely alienate him from Steve. Why hadn't he ever built up his sympathetic-ear skills instead?

Well, he knew why. He’d assumed he’d never be in the position to use them. 

A beat. Another. A breath that Tony was barely willing to take for fear of breaking the balance.

“Convinced that this is real,” Steve finally finished. His eyes darted to Tony’s for a brief second before looking back at the table. “That it’s not all just going to evaporate out of nowhere and I’ll be back in 1945 freezing to death in the ocean. So anything I leave lying around… “ He made a gesture with his hands that didn’t really mean anything, but Tony understood anyway.

The two of them sat in silence for a moment, watching the light from the open window trace lines of light across the wall.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Tony said, as quietly as he could so as to preserve the fragile moment. “What you do for this team is the realest damn thing I’ve ever seen.” A dozen nicknames swirled onto his tongue, urging him to twist the sentence, but he kept his mouth closed. For once, he’d said what he meant.

And it made Steve meet his eyes at last, if only to try and find some glint of sarcasm there, but there was none to be found. He gave a nod of thanks and tapped an unidentifiable rhythm on the table for a few moments before his mouth curved unexpectedly. 

“And also,” he said. “All I owned in the army was an extra pair of socks, so that might also have something to do with it.”

Tony matched his grin. “Aw, come on, not even a toothbrush?”

“You know I was poor as shit back in the forties, right?”

“Language, Cap…“ Tony reminded with a scandalized raise of the eyebrows. Steve shook his head, but the lighthearted expression remained.

… for approximately eight seconds as Steve appraised him as though mentally deciding whether or not to say something.

Because this was Steve Rogers, of course he did. 

“I’ve noticed something, Tony,” he said, still giving him that look. The look that was really pushing the border between Steve who closed the windows when it rained and Captain America who led the Avengers into the field.

Tony shrugged. “Whatever it is, I’m sure you’re not alone.”

“Good,” Steve said, even more unexpectedly. “Because I’ve noticed that the reason you’re upset about the Tower being so clean--”

“I never said I was upset, I said I was unsettled, there’s a big difference and in that difference lies my dignity--”

“--is because you want all of us to feel like this is our home. That this isn’t temporary and you’re part of the team.”

“Um, haven’t you been listening to yourself? That’s what  _ you  _ want, Mister Amber Waves of Grain. Leave me out of your  _ teamwork. _ ” 

“Suit yourself.” Steve stood up and started to step away from the table, but then stopped and looked back. “That was not an opportunity for an Iron Man pun, just to make it clear.”

“You ruin all the fun.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think I’m the only member of this team that you’re not part of that’s going to pay you a visit soon.”

Tony nodded. “Oh, I know. Have fun bench-pressing garbage trucks or whatever it is you’re planning to do today.”

“Same to you.” Steve disappeared through the door, leaving Tony alone in the kitchen.

For now, anyway.

* * *

A few minutes later--that had turned into twenty, that had turned into half an hour, and now somehow it was three in the afternoon--Tony was in the workshop, making some adjustments to a detached Iron Man glove that had been slightly slower with the repulsors. Once he’d fixed that, he’d noticed that the whirring noise coming from the joints was too loud, and then it had been the attachment points, and then--well, and then it had become three in the afternoon.

In fact, the only reason Tony became aware of this at all was the single knock on the door a moment before Bruce let himself in.

“JARVIS, what’d I tell you,” Tony said without looking up, still tracing a wire down to its connector. If it was loose, that might explain the delay, but he still had to figure out a way to better insulate it from slackening whenever he was thrown through a wall. Which happened a lot more often now that Thor had discovered high fiving. “No humans allowed in this room without permission.”

“You excluded Dr Banner from that list three weeks ago, shortly after you did the same for Ms Potts, sir.”

“Huh. I forgot about--oh, it’s Bruce?” Tony turned around, a sharp pain suddenly arcing across his spine and neck area from standing in the same position for so long.

Bruce was indeed standing behind him, hovering near the door as though unsure whether Tony wanted to be interrupted--or whether, if he did interrupt him, whatever he was working on might explode. Which was not an unjustified assumption. When Tony waved him over, he finally untethered himself and came closer until he was in front of Tony’s project.

“Got a few loose wires?”

Tony grinned. “That’s what Pepper says. I’m thinking the Mark XV should upgrade to a more thermal-resistant insulator, work out a few more kinks. I have standards, you know.”

Bruce shook his head in commiseration. “I suppose Kapton doesn’t quite extend to fire-breathing aliens.”

“Oh, tell me about it. Not even gold-titanium alloys protect from hyper Asgardians. But I’ve invented new elements before, so it’s only a matter of time and caffeine.” He lifted a finger. “And yes, I said invented, because if my dad wanted the credit then he shouldn’t have been dead and an ass.”

“I wasn’t going to say a word.”

And then he really didn’t, and that was the exasperating part of talking to Bruce, because if you left a silence, that did not necessarily mean that he would fill it, just in case you were planning to say something else or maybe didn’t want to continue the conversation at all or who even knew what reasons were spinning around in that guy’s head. Bruce Banner was one of Tony’s favorite people to talk to--and one of the only few who were actually people and not bots or AIs--but, you know, that meant that sometimes (a lot of the time) he actually wanted to  _ talk  _ to him.

After a few seconds of rolling a screw back and forth between his fingers on the table, waiting for the other man to say something, Tony finally broke the silence. 

“You came in here for… ?” An emphatic hand gesture, because really, you couldn’t just depend on  _ words _ to get your meaning out.

Bruce straightened. “Right. If you’re busy, it’s not that important.” 

_ Oh, no, you won’t,  _ Tony thought resolvedly.  _ Not that easily. _ He put down the screw he was holding and took a step forward, closing the distance Bruce had just made by backing away.

“Come on,” Tony started. “Do you know how many of these things I’ve got in storage? And that’s just in this Tower, I’ve got a whole garage of assorted Iron Man parts in Malibu, so trust me, fixing this one is not a priority.” 

A rueful look from Bruce. “As though Tony Stark could sleep at night if one of his suits was impaired in any way.”

“That’s--! … true. However, I am willing to make sacrifices if it means I get to spend time with the smartest scientist in the world.” Tony underlined the last phrase with a cheeky grin as he leaned back against the table to better make eye contact, the picture of an attentive listener.

One that Bruce wasn’t believing for a second. “Mmhm.” His hands came out of his pockets to fidget with the bottom of his shirt. “This is just about earlier, when you were talking about the Tower; I wanted to apologize--”

“Go on,” Tony said. “Give me your absolutely ridiculous reasoning for why everything that has ever happened is your fault. I’m ready.”

“ _ Tony. _ ” Bruce gave him a look, but dropped it a few seconds later. “Not really apologize, I guess, but more like… you were right, and I blew you off--all of us blew you off. But you were right.”

There was another pause, but not an uncomfortable-silence-void-that-someone-needs-to-fill pause. Just a pause where Tony’s mind was whirring away as Bruce sorted out the words he wanted to say.

“Living here, in the Tower, with all of you--it takes some getting used to, you know? I don’t have to wake up every morning and wonder whether I’ll still have clothes and a place to sleep by the end of the day. You tend to pick up after yourself when there’s barely anything to pick up.”

Tony nodded seriously. “And I bet that’s the only reason.”

“Tony!” Bruce had the very interesting expression that was at once somebody trying to scold another person while hiding in the corner themselves. And yeah, Tony knew what the sensitive subjects were for most of the team, but he wanted Bruce to know that he understood. Or, at the very least, that he recognized and acknowledged it, as someone who hadn’t had the best parenting himself.

He held up his hands. “Hey, I am fully respecting your personal boundaries here, I am just bringing it up so you don’t have to edge around or pretend--”

“I am not  _ edging around _ \--”

“--that neither of us know what a shitty childhood is, so there we go, got that out of the way, for the record: no one on this team is ever going to reject you, especially not me, and it’s okay to leave a cup in the dishwasher sometimes instead of immediately washing it or whatever thrill-seeking adventures you dream of in your spare time.” Tony waved a hand, but then met Bruce’s eyes with utter seriousness. “You’re never going to have to be on the run again as long as I have anything to say about it.”

The two of them held each other’s gaze, understanding passing between them like the charge of the wires on that glove that now probably wasn’t going to be repaired for a while. But Tony didn’t care--because as long as he could get the message across, as long as Bruce finally accepted that he might be wanted somewhere--which might have been happening just the tiniest bit, as Bruce’s head dipped and his hands let go of his shirt hem--then it was an afternoon well spent, in his opinion.

An afternoon that bled into evening--not that either of them really registered it, as the workshop had no windows--as Tony and Bruce huddled over new projects and shot ideas back and forth, a generator more powerful than the arc reactor, if a little harder to get going.

* * *

Now, Tony Stark wasn’t an assassin by any means, but even he would surmise that of all the places to ambush someone, on their way to the bathroom was not the most ideal.

Which is why when Natasha appeared out of nowhere when Tony was coming up the stairs, he assumed that she had finally gone over to the dark side and was going to murder him.

“Jeez, Romanoff! Give the guy a heart attack, why don’t you?”

“It’s never a good sign when someone starts to refer to themselves in the third person,” Natasha observed, sliding out from her concealed alcove at the top of the stairs. He’d known it was a terrible idea to have stairs in the Tower. Fire hazards were things for people without flying suits to worry about. Next time he had the chance: elevators. And only elevators. 

“Yeah, well it’s also never a good sign when someone’s lurking in a corner to pop out at people.” Tony crossed his arms, noticed Natasha’s amused look, and uncrossed them. “If being S.H.I.E.L.D.’s most secretive secret agent doesn’t work out, look into employment options at a haunted house. I can see you as a zombie…”

“Zombies are too slow; I like to move fast,” Natasha said. She didn’t look it at the moment, resting almost casually against the wall, but Tony had gotten to know her well enough by now that that was when she was the most on edge. And based on what his last couple conversations had been about, he had a pretty good idea why.

“And do you also have a motive besides eating brains?”

“Besides that.” Her gaze flicked from the ceiling light to the modern curve of the stair railing to the hallway that Tony had been heading towards. Gauging escape routes, maybe, or stalling for time so that she didn’t have to admit whatever she’d approached him to admit. “Acceptable tower you’ve got here, you know.”

“Glad it meets your approval.” Tony wasn’t quite as sure where she was going with this as he had been with Steve and Bruce--the Black Widow was easily the hardest to read on the team, and the most risky to read wrong. 

“Well, it is one of the only places where I haven’t had to enter it undercover.” Okay, now he really didn’t know where she was going with this.

“In case you forgot, we met when you were undercover,” Tony said, and then couldn’t resist. “Sometimes I miss Natalie Rushman.”

Natasha sighed. “Yeah, me too.” She brushed a loose piece of hair out of her face. “Look. It’s--it’s something to get used to, being here, being part of a team like this. I’ve always done my work alone, more times than not as someone other than myself. Now, there aren’t really any… boundaries, I suppose, and I don’t know how to become more comfortable with that. With leaving a trace. With living somewhere--here--because it’s my home and not because it’s for a mission.” She gave a half laugh at the word “home,” like it sounded ridiculous even to her. “And even a year ago, I definitely never would have thought that I’d be confiding in Tony Stark, of all people.”

Tony’s mouth dropped even as his mind hurtled through a roller coaster of tangents. “Hey, what exactly is it about me that I’m not your first choice of confidante?” He shook his head as she looked at him incredulously. “No, this deserves to be said. If your standard is Barton--like, that’s who you’ve been depending on all these years, then no wonder you’ve got so much bottled up.”

That wouldn’t have gone over well with anyone else--Steve would absolutely have punched him if he’d tried that tactic earlier--but with Nat… Tony got the sense, somehow, that she hadn’t come to him for seriousness. That was the job of…  _ any _ one else on the team. If she’d sought out Tony… he got the feeling that he was more there to be a lighthearted wall to bounce her thoughts off of than anything else. That was what Natasha needed--and probably rarely ever got, judging by the general vibe of every S.H.I.E.L.D. therapist ever.

Sure enough, the ghost of a smile whisked across her face. “I think you’re proving my point, Stark.” The wall behind Tony’s head must suddenly have become very interesting, because she stared at it for a moment before continuing. “I’ve always lived in a temporary world; everything I owned: my belongings, my past, my identity, that’s all just clothes to take off when the mission is over. It’s sloppy to leave them tossed on my bed.” Her mouth crooked. “And leaving a mess behind when you’re a spy? Not the best way to get hired again.”

“Huh.” Tony brushed his hand across his chin thoughtfully. “Funnily enough, I can see why that might be a problem. And looking further back…?” 

“I did own a pair of handcuffs, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Natasha said bluntly. “Or at least that was the closest thing that really belonged to me, back then.”

Tony felt… well, he didn’t know what he felt. Whenever anyone on the team made any kind of remark like that, it was somewhat of an inner battle between comforting them (bad idea: Tony Stark was not terrific in that area) and tracking down the people who had done these things to them and--and doing something unprintable (also a bad idea: the majority of those people were already dead. Except the government, the government was still alive. The government was always still alive, but not for long if they kept hurting his team).

And maybe it was ridiculous to want to avenge wrongs done years ago to a woman who could slit his throat in instants, but… well, he wasn’t an Avenger for nothing.

“You’ve got something better now,” Tony said at last. “Better than something belonging to you. You belong to something. You’re a part of the team. And no matter how hard you try, you can’t get away from us without leaving a whole lot more than a trace.”

Natasha’s eyes went wide for a moment, as though her brain was on delay trying to make sense of this new information, before she said in a dry voice, “Gotta admit, I never pictured you as the inspiring speech-giver of the team.”

Tony threw up his hands. “I know, right? My money was always on Cap.” 

There was a pause as the two of them came to understandings in the silence, their own thoughts too busy in their heads to say anything out loud. It was a delicate moment, one to preserve.

“Hey.” Tony straightened up. “I’m feeling like we really got to know each other during this little talk, what do you say we head to the training room and, uh--” He posed in his best fight stance, which probably looked like some unholy mix between the Karate Kid and a bad video game character (come on, it wasn’t any worse than what Barton did in the shower) and looked eagerly at Natasha.

Nat smirked. “In your dreams, Stark.” And, darn, he’d forgotten not to blink, because a moment later she was gone. 

Seriously. Haunted houses.

* * *

A few minutes after his encounter with Romanoff--after he’d actually gone to the bathroom like he’d meant to when she’d decided to go all serial-killer-mode on him--Tony discovered that his phone was not in his pocket. This was not an ideal development for anyone, but especially not when your house was a ninety-three-story tower and it could have been literally anywhere.

Fortunately, JARVIS was a thing that existed, and the AI helpfully informed him that he’d left his phone on the coffee table that morning, thus saving him a very annoying five-hour search. Probably accompanied by one of Steve’s “see why all of your newfangled devices aren’t that great” looks, the fact that Steve had never said anything like that notwithstanding. 

Still arguing with JARVIS about how no, he did not need to be wearing glasses and nor would he ever, Tony entered the living room only to find Thor spread out on the couch with the TV blaring the History Channel, of all things. And, yes, there was the small black rectangle of Tony’s phone resting contentedly on the coffee table in front of him.

Tony stopped short. It was unclear whether Thor had noticed him, since he hadn’t taken his eyes off the screen and the volume hadn’t changed a bit.

“So, Man of Iron, have you ever had to set an example for a younger brother?”

That answered that question, then.

Tony’s hands raised in front of him like “wait.” “Hold on, are we talking about how I was saying the Tower was scarily clean? Because you’ve got to have some lead-up, man, you can’t just start off with--”

“I did not think so.” Thor nodded wisely. He still hadn’t looked in Tony’s direction since he’d entered the room. “How about for an entire kingdom?”

Honestly, how was he supposed to respond to this?

Tony sighed. “Listen, Hammer Time, we’re, ah, we’re kind of past that, so--”

Thor’s hand reached across the couch and picked up the remote, holding down the volume button until Tony had to restrain himself from covering his ears. Thor gave absolutely no sign that he’d noticed this.

Tony waited a few moments to see if Thor was going to say anything else. When he didn’t, Tony edged forward until he reached the coffee table and scooped up the phone. He didn’t have to worry that anyone--anyone with a magical hammer and the dress sense of someone who should be reciting sonnets on the battlefield--had messed with it, since he was pretty sure Thor couldn’t work a phone. 

“You’re blocking the screen,” Thor remarked.

“Well, excuse me,” Tony sniped back. The phone went back in his pocket and he stepped out of the way, cocking his head at said screen, which was now showing a picture of an ancient tomb juxtaposed with one of outer space. “Why are you watching this crap, anyway? You’re an alien, you should already know what stuff is aliens.”

“It’s just so hilarious from the mortals’ point of view,” Thor said, an easy grin resting on his face. For someone who was the god of thunderstorms, he sure was sunshiney. 

Tony narrowed his eyes. “Right. There’s an insult in there somewhere.” He started back towards the doorway. “However, I am busy, since I am actually of use in this house--” Thor laughed “--so I will now be off.”

Tony was nearly out the door when he heard Thor start talking again behind him, almost as an afterthought.

“Speaking of which, I resent that I am always blamed for the malfunctioning of your coffee maker. Especially when on many an occasion I have witnessed Barton smack the machine repeatedly before leaving it for the rest of you to find.”

Like a reel from a movie, the slew of times when Tony had noticed the coffee machine was broken again and Clint had sipped from his own cup with a little too much satisfaction played before his eyes. “Thor, you’re my new favorite Avenger,” he decided. Then, because nothing stabilized a team like expert sarcasm, he added, “Godspeed,” and left.

The last thing he heard before he was completely out of earshot was Thor, in what sounded like complete seriousness (although Tony had been around him long enough to know that it was anything but), replying, “And to you.”

* * *

Tony’s fingers were tapping quickly, almost rhythmically, across the screen as he gave new notifications the attention they needed and then swiped them away bare seconds later. Pepper was on a business trip in LA but she’d call him tonight--well, “tonight” for him, they’d mastered the manipulation of time differences by now--his signature was needed to sign off on a new department, and--delightful--a couple news stations had run out of actual news and had now decided to latch onto “the safety questions” that came from having six superpowered individuals in one place without any… well, the word they used was “administration,” but it was obvious they meant “control.” Tony closed out of the tab. If he was being perfectly honest, these theorists didn’t have much to worry about in terms of the Avengers going  _ non compos mentis _ ; all they’d have to do was leave out some unfolded laundry or break a glass on the floor and there you go: Avengers, taken care of.

He set the screen in his lap and leaned back into the soft cushiony chair. The room was completely and utterly silent--everyone else either in the training room or watching TV with Thor or doing who knew what, but there was absolutely no sign of another human being probably on the entire floor. Tony looked up at the ceiling.

“So, I'm guessing you’ve got the same line of thinking as Red? Too much spying, not enough vacation time?”

The faintest noise, like an exhale, came from the air vent. It could’ve come from a momentarily blocked shaft, or an extra burst of air being pumped out, or, you know, something else.

“Ah, I see. You’re more a pack-light type of guy? On the ice cube’s team with the single knapsack--god, it physically pains me to say the words.”

Another noise.

“Man, I gotta say, I am not at my best today. However, you are in luck, because I just so happen to be--a genius. In that case: less-than-ideal childhood?”

A clank from the vents.

“Mmhmm. See, I told you not to give up on me that easily. I’m glad we could come to this understanding.”

More barely audible clanks--that Tony probably wouldn’t have heard if he hadn’t known to pay attention--as Clint crawled away through the vents. 

_ Well, _ he thought.  _ That was six. _

* * *

After the Battle of New York--once people had brushed off the panic that came with having their city nearly overrun with aliens and a Norse god on a power trip--the Avengers had become a source of public fascination. And yes, people wanted to know how they fought, how strong they were, what their powers could do… but that got tiring after a while, and attention turned lightning-fast to  _ who  _ the Avengers were. If they all lived in the Tower together, did that mean they were friends? ( _ How  _ close of friends, some particular fansites pondered not-so-subtly) How much time did they spend preparing for missions? And--perhaps the most fascinating question of all--what did they do when they weren’t?

Well, at the moment--

“You did not just throw a shell at me!”

Natasha gave the barest of shrugs as so not to jostle the controller in her hand, but a smirk spread across her face. “You shouldn’t have hit it, then.”

“It hit me! Haven’t I suffered enough?” Despite his claims to the contrary, Clint was actually doing pretty well, angling his controller to slide his kart right around a corner and narrowly avoid the edge. 

Tony darted his own to the side, zooming over a speed boost and up another hill on the track. It hadn’t been his idea to play on Rainbow Road, but he had to admit, it was working out fine for him as his number blinked from three to two. 

How they had ended up here was beyond him, honestly; someone--probably Steve--had suggested a team activity that  _ totally  _ wasn’t to make up for the extreme awkwardness and soul-baring of that morning, probably thinking of beating stuff up in the training room together or doing trust falls or whatever supersoldiers did to unwind, but then Clint had butted in and pointed out that Steve and Thor hadn’t quite been introduced to  _ all  _ the entertainment a modern-day Earth had to offer, and why didn’t they try some out right now? After about thirty-seven minutes of arguing over movies, someone (definitely not him) had pulled out the console and controllers from a cabinet under the TV. Hey, the only ones who would normally play with him were the bots and sometimes Rhodey when he was around, he hadn’t bought the thing to admire it. 

So now he, Clint, Nat, and Steve were sitting in various positions on the floor and furniture--himself and Nat cross-legged on the floor, Steve leaning forward with his back against the coffee table, and Clint lying horizontal on the arm of the couch, all of them with controllers clutched like lifelines--while Thor and Bruce watched the the disintegration of the team and laughed. They’d been switching off the two who’d gotten last place to make it “fair,” but that rule was mostly just ensuring that Clint and Nat got to play every round. 

Steve was improving, though; the first couple rounds he might’ve crashed into a few walls, but on this track there were no walls so-- _ oooh.  _ There went Steve’s pixelated little cart over the edge again.

“It’s these corners,” Steve muttered. Thor leaned forward and gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder. 

“Third lap!” Clint suddenly cheered. “Nat, if you mess this up for me I swear--!”

“Something tells me she’s not the one to worry about…” Tony snagged another speed boost space and went hurtling forward, the golden number in the bottom corner changing from a two to a one. “Ha!”

Clint frantically started mashing buttons. “You just wait, Stark, I’m gonna--Nat. Nat, what are you doing with that bomb. Stop. Nat!”

“You’re getting too confident, I’m only doing my duty here,” Natasha grinned as she released the bomb, which went spiraling right at Clint’s kart. 

“ _ Shit! _ ” 

Natasha smoothly pulled into second place, nearly neck and neck with Tony. Slowly, ever so slowly, she started to shove his cart to the left, forcing it more and more over to the edge of the road.

“Nat, come on,” Tony pleaded. “We’re friends. You wouldn’t do this to me, would you?”

“Sorry, Stark.” Nat pressed down the button. “It’s for the greater good.”

“No no no no no no--ah,  _ fuck _ !” Tony’s controller hit the carpet and his head dropped into his hands. A second later, of course, he grabbed it back up, because there was still a good chance that he could get second place--

And then Clint yelped, his eyes going wide, and everyone in the room looked over to see Steve, eyes locked onto the screen in concentration, zooming ahead of Clint in a burst of speed. His place number ticked to three. 

“How?” Clint gestured wildly at the screen with his free hand, the other one frantically slamming buttons. “How--?”

Steve gave a half shrug, his eyes still not moving. “I don’t know; I’m as confused about this as you are.” But Tony caught the quirk of his mouth as the supersoldier tried to hold his deadpan expression. “Now, uh, which button was the one to throw shells again? It’s a little hard to keep them all straight sometimes.”

Clint made a strangled noise. Tony would have laughed, except now Steve’s kart was getting uncomfortably close to his own, jumping from speed boost to speed boost and eating up the distance in huge chunks. He tried to steer out of the way, but a particularly ill-timed corner was coming up, and he couldn’t both avoid the edge and the shell Steve was throwing, and-

“Goddamnit, Steve Rogers!” He turned around to hopefully garner some sympathy from the two on the couch, but Thor and Bruce were just watching the drama play out like it was an entertaining sports game.

“You know, I believe our captain has a good chance of becoming victorious now,” Thor observed, a broad smile on his face. “He has truly overcome the odds.”

Steve grinned but didn’t reply, all of his focus on his kart and the track. He was in second place now, only Natasha between him and what would be the most spectacular bragging rights since last month’s Monopoly game. 

Clint raised his middle finger at Thor as Tony muttered, “Oh, shut up.”

Thor poked Bruce, who was shaking with silent laughter. On Thor’s look, he called out, “Go, Steve!” 

Tony pointed at him accusingly. “Hey! Traitor! Traitor!”

Bruce shrugged, still laughing. “I’m sorry, Tony, but this is just too good.”

“I invite you all into my house--” Tony started, but before he could finish the sentence, Natasha’s kart crossed the finish line. 

“Yes!” Natasha jumped up, a rare display of excitement, as the player rankings scrolled across the screen. “See, I knew this game was a good idea.”

“Yes, good game everybo--” Steve started, trying not to smile at his own name in the second place box, but the pillow Clint threw at him did a good job of interrupting.

“That was luck,” Tony maintained. “And evil.” He tossed his own controller onto the couch, where Thor happily picked it up. “Go crazy, you two. Avenge me and my ruin.”

Bruce took Clint’s controller and slid down onto the floor. “This was hard enough playing against these two--” he pointed at Clint and Nat “--but now we’ve got Steve to worry about?” He looked at Thor. “What d’you say we form an alliance?”

Thor grinned. “I would be honored to do so.”

“Hey, you can’t do that!” Clint complained. He had rolled over into the couch so that his face was half buried in the cushions, apparently not wanting to even look at the screen. His arm waved vaguely in the direction he thought Bruce and Thor were in. “Cheaters. You’re all cheaters.”

“Agreed.” Tony stood up and grabbed the empty bowl from the coffee table. When they had originally planned to watch a movie, they’d made a batch of popcorn, but it had run out before they’d even stopped debating about the choices. “I’m gonna make some more; any objections? Never mind, I don’t care about objections.”

Natasha shook her head. “Just don’t try and use one of your robots to do it this time.”

“It’s a learning curve!”

“You can make the damn popcorn yourself.”

“ _ Fine _ .” Tony surveyed the rest of the room. The living room looked completely different than it had only mere hours before. A mess of tangled cords sat atop the console and in the general floor area in front of the TV. Couch cushions were strewn about, mostly the work of Clint. Somebody’s socks were also abandoned on the coffee table, as well as crumbs from popcorn bowl number one. A blanket nest had been formed on the floor, half-pulled off of the couch and hopelessly twisted up. Certainly no one would have put a photograph of  _ this _ in a magazine. And the Avengers themselves… 

… well, they looked comfortable. Actually comfortable, not just asleep-in-a-quinjet-because-we’ve-been-fighting-weird-bad-guys-for-five-hours comfortable. Thor was stretched out across the entire length of the couch, facing the TV horizontally. Clint was still mashed into the couch cushions as though he were trying to fuse into them by sheer force of will, but he did pop his head out to watch what characters and karts the others were picking. Bruce was discussing the “alliance” with Thor, pointing to the stats on the screen and explaining which combinations would be the most useful as Thor nodded and proceeded to pick the Flame Runner without any sort of consideration. At one point, Bruce went to push his glasses up his nose without remembering that he wasn’t wearing them. Natasha was criss-crossed on the floor, purposefully picking every character that Clint yelled at her not to pick before changing her mind a second later. Her hair was in a loose ponytail and she was in a hoodie that definitely hadn’t belonged to her that morning. As for Steve, he had now claimed the blanket nest as his territory, trying to flick through the character menu and arrange said blankets completely over his legs at the same time.

Tony watched from the doorway, the empty popcorn bowl hanging loose and forgotten in his hand. 

“JARVIS?” he whispered as quietly as he could.

“How can I be of assistance, sir?”

“Can you turn the lights down just a little bit?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks, J.”

“Will that be all, Mr Stark?”

Tony kept watching the scene play out; Steve making some kind of cheeky remark that caused Clint to finally vault sideways off the couch and tackle him, Natasha casually setting up a pillow barrier and continuing to browse kart options, Bruce and Thor moving out of the way, still talking animatedly, and the spot in the blanket nest that was the perfect amount of empty to fit a Tony Stark. Just like a tower that was the perfect amount of empty to fit the Avengers. To fit the team.

“Yeah,” Tony said. “This is good.”

* * *

The End

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
